


The Hunter's Journal

by Spunkybob5



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Artist Dean, Dean In Love, Diary/Journal, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Impala, M/M, Stargazing, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-09-09 18:09:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8906680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spunkybob5/pseuds/Spunkybob5
Summary: Dean has kept a journal since the day he became a proper hunter.





	

Dean leaned against the hood of the Impala, calloused fingers tracing the cracks in the cover of the leather journal. The thing was more than 20 years old – it had earned its blemishes. He unwound the leather cord that held it closed, prompting the cover to fall open. Dean allowed himself a nostalgic smile at the childish writing inside.

_Property of Dean Winchester_

At fourteen, Dean had considered himself a proper hunter, and proper hunters had journals. He knew he could easily have picked up something at a dollar store, but even then, Dean understood the value of investing in quality and taking care of it. And so Dean spent two weeks challenging his classmates to poker, ridding them of their spare change and lunch money.

For once, they were in a town big enough to have a large bookstore. Dean had visited it dozens of times with Sammy – the place was practically the kid’s Disneyland. This day, though, Dean went alone. He marched right up to the wall of journals, a man on a mission. His first instinct was to reach for a leather binder with lined paper. Dean turned it over in his hands for a moment before returning it to the shelf. It was the spitting image of John’s journal.

He needed a journal that was all his own.

Young Dean stood for a long time, picking up and flipping through journal after journal. Nothing was quite right. Dean sighed, absently rifling through a sketchbook. The paper was good quality, thick but soft. The leather was the same, worn enough for the book to open wide. But most importantly, there were no lines. Each page was a blank slate, waiting to be filled.

Older Dean lifted the journal to his nose, just as he had in the store 20 odd years earlier. It smelled the same – leather and paper and potential. He lowered the journal, turning each page carefully, one at a time. The first few pages were filled with tight, linear handwriting, a perfect chronicle of Dean’s early hunts.

After the fourth hunt, though, the pages began to change.

Dean paused, chewing his lower lip. Even now, memories of that hunt haunted him. A vampire, creating a family for herself. Dean’s fingers slid down the page. _She took a kid. A kid. Sammy’s age._

_I couldn’t save him._

_Why do I even try?_

The writing stopped then, a small smudge in the ink the only evidence of Dean’s heartbreak.

Dean took a deep breath, swallowing his regret, and turned the page. He allowed himself a small smile. The picture was rough – the shading irregular, the lines uneven, the symmetry skewed – but it was unmistakable. Sammy’s sleeping face, too long hair sticking up every which way, face smooshed into the pillow, even a little drool at the corner of his mouth.

_Do it for Sammy._

Dean gazed at the picture for another moment before moving on. As he gained experience as a hunter, the entries became shorter. A few were little more than a footnote. The space left empty of words was increasingly filled with pictures. Most of Sam, many of monsters, a few of his mom, a handful of Bobby, even a couple of burgers and pies.

The quality improves, too. Dean had discovered quickly he enjoyed drawing. His hands spent so much time destroying and killing…it was cathartic to create something. He’d made a point of enrolling himself in art classes at each new school and never skipped. It was a point of pride to Dean, how much he’d improved.

Dean flipped through a few more pages before stopping at his favorite picture.

Castiel.

Spread across the entire open face of the book was the angel in all his splendor, wings silhouetted, eyes glowing, lightning cracking around him. That first night in the barn was burned in Dean’s brain. He’d thought putting it on paper would help clear his mind.

He was wrong.

Picture after picture of Castiel graced the pages of his journal. Dean had even purchased colored pencils for the first time, trying desperately to find a blue that did justice to Castiel’s eyes. None ever really did.

More slowly now, Dean turned the pages. The early drawings of the angel inspired awe and majesty. Castiel had entered Dean’s life as a storm – powerful and terrifying and unyielding. Gradually, though, the imagery shifted. 

Castiel throwing back a shot, elegant neck exposed.

Castiel tilting his head, brow furrowed.

Castiel smiling, amused by his stupid goat joke.

Dean sighed. He hadn’t realized it at the time. He didn’t know he was recording himself falling in love. Not until the picture of Castiel disappearing into the lake.

After that drawing, the writing increased and the pictures all but disappeared. Dean had tried his damnedest to record every scrap of information about the Leviathans. And based on this journal, he was definitely the world’s leading authority. But reading through the entries now, Dean sees the words for what they really are.

One long, heartbroken prayer to his angel.

Smudges in the ink exposed Dean’s heartbreak on these pages, too.

Once Castiel was revealed to be alive, the images gradually returned. Dean swallowed hard, flipping past a large section of the journal. Castiel’s madness, the deaths of Kevin and Charlie – he didn’t need to relive those. The pain was still plenty fresh.

Dean stopped suddenly at the picture of Amara, eyes narrowed. Compared to the composition of the drawings around it, the portrait felt flat. At the time, his inability to get her to look right had frustrated Dean. Now, though, he understood. Everything he’d felt for her was just that – flat. Manufactured. The sketch was accurate.

Dean skipped past the half-hearted pictures of Chuck and Rowena, Crowley and Lucifer. They were all dark, pencil pressed hard against the paper, a tangible reminder of his frustration.

Two pages more and Dean stopped again, a warm smile spreading over his features. It was - of course – another drawing of Castiel. Unlike the picture of Amara, this portrait practically leapt off the page. The warmth of Castiel’s expression, the softness around his eyes, the brush of a smile across his lips. It was a perfect record of Castiel after the first time they made love.

Dean’s fingers traced the lines of Castiel’s face. He knew he would never tire of admiring it. Abruptly, Dean released a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Dropping the journal on the hood of the Impala, Dean flipped to the very end of it, the only remaining blank page, potential unrealized.

***

The stars were just trickling into the sky when Dean heard the rumble of an engine draw even with the Impala before cutting off. The door creaked open and slammed shut.

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean smiled at the sky, “Hey, Cas.”

“I brought pie.”

“Awesome. Bring it and your fine ass over here.” Dean patted the hood. One graceful movement and Castiel settled next to him, his body heat warming Dean to his core.

Castiel handed Dean the pie box and a fork. “Have you been out here all day?”

“Yeah.” Dean set the pie next to him, resisting diving in. “I, uh, have something for you, too, actually.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” Dean grabbed the journal, taking a deep breath, “I know it seems backwards, but read the last page first.”

Castiel took the journal and opened it to the last page as instructed. His angelic vision meant he needed very little light to see, so he started reading immediately. Dean leaned back, staring up at the stars, seeing only the letter he’d written:

_Dear Cas,_

_I’m not great with words. Or feelings. I’m lucky you seem to get me anyway. I want to improve, though. For you. For us. You know me better than anyone ever has, and…I like it. I didn’t think I would, but I do. It makes me feel safe, you know? Cherished. Loved._

_And I do love you, Cas. I don’t say it a lot. Or ever. But I do. So fucking much._

_Anyway. I want you have my journal. No one else has ever seen it. I’m not sure Sam even remembers I have it, and he sure as hell has never read it. It’s the only thing in the world that’s truly mine. Everything in it is me. I created it. I made it._

_There is no one I trust with this piece of me more than you._

_Always,_

_Dean_

Castiel closed the journal, setting it reverently on his lap. He laced his fingers through Dean’s, using his other hand to turn Dean’s face to his.

“Dean,” he breathed. “I love you, too.”

They shared a kiss, sweet and gentle. Dean snuggled into Castiel’s side, smiling with the knowledge that the first image in his new journal would be Castiel’s perfect face, illuminated by starlight.

**Author's Note:**

> OK, I realize this feels like an incredibly long, endlessly expanding journal. I'm willing to suspend disbelief if you are. :-)


End file.
